


Bloody Teeth

by lazilycoolllama



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dystopia, Fucked Up, Post-Apocalypse, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, idk - Freeform, it's up for interpretation, kind of?, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 14:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazilycoolllama/pseuds/lazilycoolllama
Summary: “God, you looked horrible,” He said.Wren didn’t respond. Her eyes flicked down to her hands, placed in her lap like she was some upper city bitch. Dark purple bruises were already beginning to form on her forearms. The white bandages were barely holding off the flow of blood from her knuckles. Everything hurt.Good.





	Bloody Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> This was written because I was venting about wanting to hurt myself, but then it turned into whatever that ending was. Idk, enjoy?

 

“You need to stop.”

Wren huffed in response, continuing to wrap the bandages around her split knuckles. Blood seeped through the fabric, so she piled on another layer. The entire right side of her face stung. Her lips felt numb. Pain, sharp and dull at the same time, echoed around her ribs. She had probably broken some of them. Sitting next to her, cleaning the blood from her face, was Jasper. His slender fingers held a rag, soaked with blood and water alike. He was scowling, his nose scrunched and his eyebrows drawn together.

“I’m serious,” He said, patting at a cut along her cheekbone. Wren drew in a sharp breath as he pressed to hard. “Going out and getting into all these fights… it’s not healthy. You’re hurting yourself.”

“Wow, really?” Wren said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Jasper rolled his eyes and pressed down hard again.

They were sitting in Jaspers apartment. Exposed pipes ran along the grimy brick walls. A pot boiled broth on the sad stovetop. The single window overlooked the ally next to the building. The song of several drunk men resonated up, and faint noises of the city around them joined into the melody. Somebody screamed down the hall. A baby cried from the apartment below them. It was a mess of noises, clashing together into a symphony of city life.

The rickety bed they were sitting on groaned in protest as Jasper shifted. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to turn her head so that he could clean the other side of her face.

“God, you looked horrible,” He said.

Wren didn’t respond. Her eyes flicked down to her hands, placed in her lap like she was some upper city bitch. Dark purple bruises were already beginning to form on her forearms. The white bandages were barely holding off the flow of blood from her knuckles. Everything hurt.

Good.

It hadn’t been a big deal. She had gone out for the day, not looking for trouble. Wandering into that junkyard and picking a fight with the junkers had been almost habit. Almost routine to find something to hurt herself. If not a bottle of booze, then a fist in her gut and a bloody grin on her face.

Jasper moved on from her face to her ribs. Checking each one, he sighed. “You’re lucky. Nothing broken, but it’s still bruised badly. You’re going to be feeling that for a while.”

Wren grunted. She felt his eyes on her, but she refused to look up. Meeting his eyes meant she was acknowledging him. Acknowledging that she knew he was right. Whatever. Jasper could shove his morals up his ass.

“What happened this time?”

“It was just some junkers,” She mumbled. “Wandered into the wrong part of the yard.”

“Jesus Christ…” Jasper sighed, running a hand down his face. “You know the yard is claimed by the fucking junkers. What were you thinking? They could have killed you!”

“They wouldn’t kill me. Junkers have a code.”

“Right. Because they’re all so morally uptight,” Jasper shot back. Wren’s eyes flicked up for a moment and saw the frustration in his eyes. Frustration, anger, fear, worry… so much conveyed in one glance.

Jasper had blue eyes. Rare, in the lower city. Blue eyes were an upper city trait. Of course, there were a few oddballs here and there, but the majority of the lower city had dark eyes. Wren couldn’t count on both hands and feet how many times Jasper had nearly been killed, or kidnapped, for that trait. Witches paid good money for blue eyes, and slavers loved the unique ones.

She was normal. Dark eyes, dark hair, olive skin. She looked exactly like every other struggling person in the lower city. Picking at her torn fingernails, she scowled at her faint white lines crisscrossing her skin. Years of fights displayed upon her skin, like a timeline of pain and anger. New ones would be added soon.

The bed shifted as Jasper got to his feet. He started dishing out broth into ceramic bowls, the faint clinking somehow loud in the tiny apartment. Jasper always seemed big to her. Not physically. Jasper was as lanky as a cat. No, it was the shadows under his eyes. It was the way he moved, with assurance and confidence. He moved with the knowledge that if someone tried to touch him, or her, one of them wasn’t going to walk away.

“Here,” Jasper said, turning back and handing her one of the bowls. “I think I have some bread around here.”

He started rummaging through a cupboard while Wren held the bowl. The warmth absorbed into her hands, bringing feeling back after being so cold. It was always cold here. Cold, wet, and miserable.

Jasper found a bag of flatbread and brought it back. He began to tear it into pieces, handing them one by one to her. She dipped them into the broth and ate. She never realized how hungry she really was until she started eating.

For a while they continued in silence, but Wren knew Jasper wouldn’t stay quiet for long. The moment she finished, he took the bowls and set them on the floor. Avoiding eye contact, he leaned back against the wall.

“Remember mom?”

Wren felt like her intestines had curled in on themselves; like each organ had been dipped into acid and was shriveling away. Clenching her fists, she nodded stiffly.

“Of course, I remember mom,” She growled. “I was there.”

“Not that,” Jasper said. His voice was to soft. To understanding. “Before.”

Faintly. Whispers of a time when she was happy. When it had been the three of them, and nothing hurt. When Wren smiled easily, and Jasper laughed. When a child was allowed to be a child, and the world seemed safe.

“I remember,” Jasper continued. Wren looked over her shoulder to see him smiling. It wasn’t a happy smile, but it wasn’t tense either. “I remember mom making us breakfast before she went to work. She liked to cut the meat so that it curled when it boiled. She said it made it look like an octopus. You always ate the bottom first.”

“I don’t remember that,” Wren said. She had been to young. Only two years old, probably. Jasper would have been six. Much to young for what was to follow.

“Yeah. You were a chubby baby,” Jasper said. “Good thing too. You were always getting into trouble, even then. You needed the extra layers.”

“I must have been a pain.”

“You were,” Jasper chuckled. “Always disappearing. Giving mom heart attacks every fucking time we went anywhere. I remember once you almost got kidnapped by this slaver. You wandered right into his shop. Mom beat the shit out of him.”

The two smiled at each other. The memories were to painful to laugh at, but something nice to remember was better than what Wren had. It had been nearly twenty years since then, but Wren couldn’t forget. How could she? Her first clear memory was her worst.

“Was…” She didn’t know how to ask. “Was she happy?”

Jasper was quiet for a moment. Wren looked back at him, and saw him rubbing his neck. The scars were still there. A perfect circle of several small scars. “I think so. She loved you though. She loved us.”

Loved. The past tense made Wren’s shoulders drawn in, causing her to grit her teeth in pain, but she ignored it. Loved. Long ago she loved them. She used to love. She loved in a time where Wren was young and innocent. Before she knew how cruel and horrifying the real world was. Before she learned how truly fucked the world could be.

“Did you ever meet your dad?” Wren asked. She knew the answer, but she hated the silence.

Jasper sat up right on the bed, his arm barely brushing hers. “No. I saw him once, though. Some political debate, or whatever. He was in the Square, giving some speech about the necessity of the walls, or some bullshit. I don’t know. I just turned around and walked away. Fuck him.”

“Yeah,” Wren agreed dully. “Fuck him.”

“Your dad was cool, though,” Jasper said. “From what I remember, anyways. He made mom laugh a lot.”

“And then he left.”

“We don’t know why,” Jasper said, but there was no heat behind his words. They both knew that the man who sired Wren had left and their mother had never spoken a word about him again. All Wren had of him were the few memories Jasper had, and a half-glitched photo of him. From what she could tell, she got his nose. Well, maybe. She’s broken it enough that it was now crooked. Oops.

“It’s getting late,” Jasper said. Wren looked up to see the sky, already gray and dismal, was growing darker by the second. “Do you want to go to bed? I can do it tonight.”

Wren shook her head. “It’s my turn. I’ve already caused you enough grief. Get some sleep.”

Jasper nodded, then got to his feet, helping her stand. She shrugged a jacket on, thanked her brother for the meal, and left. The hallway was dark, and strange noises echoed from the down the halls. A few people sat on the floor, and a couple furiously made out in a doorway. They were fumbling with the door handle, attempting to enter the room but to focused on each other to succeed.

She passed them by and started down the stairs. They creaked under her heavy boots. The moment she hit the ground floor and pushed open the door, she was greeted with a blast of cold air. Flipping her hood up, she started down the street.

Neon signs illuminated the cobbled road. A witch called out their wares. A hawker shouted and waved some cheaply made item. A woman, wearing just enough clothes to keep off the cold, leered at her from a whorehouse doorway. Two children chased a ball. Even though the world was entering night, the lower city was still alive. It never slept, always full of those who couldn’t afford to sleep.

It wasn’t to far away. Just a few blocks, and a ten-minute tram ride to the solid black building. There were no windows, and one door. A fifteen-foot chain-link fence surrounded it, the top decorated with curls of barbed wire. A guard took her papers from her at the gate. His face was blank, and he appeared bored out of his mind.

“Friend or family?” He asked.

“Family,” She answered stiffly. He noted it on his pad, then buzzed her in. Inside was warmer, but only slightly. A desk separated her from the receptionist. Her name was Cheri, and she had worked there for as long as Wren could remember. Looking up from her screen, Cheri smiled not unkindly.

“Hello Wren.”

“Cheri,” She responded.

“How is Jasper?”

“Fine.”

Cheri handed her the keycard, and Wren nodded in thanks. She didn’t dislike Cheri. She was just a droid. You couldn’t trust a droid. They were always recording what you did, and what you said. Slipping up around a droid meant you might get a visit from the peace keepers. Those people usually disappeared.

Wren entered the elevator. It ran silently. No groans, or odd clacks. Proof that this building was maintained by upper city money. Wren tugged her jacket around her body closely. She hated it.

The doors slid open on the fifth floor, and she stepped out. Two doors down, the one on the right. Indistinguishable from the wall except for a thin line forming a doorway. With a wave of the keycard, the door slid open and allowed her inside.

She sat down on the bench, hearing the door slid shut behind her. A thick pane of glass separated her from the rest of the room. Wren’s gut clenched, and she gulped. Even though she hurt, everything inside seemed at war. Her mouth felt dry.

A woman sat in the center of the room. Chains, solid black and dull from age, extended from the four corners of the room to the collar around the woman’s neck. Her hair covered her face, and her body was covered in a gray shift. She was shaking.

Wren leaned forwards, her eyes searching desperately for some kind of change. Something different than the other hundreds of times she had come. Something to prove that the woman before her wasn’t what they thought she was.

“I see you’re back,” The woman said. Her voice was rough, like she had gargled gravel and nails. It was also distorted a little by the microphone it was delivered from. Wren jumped, still startled by it.

“I always come back,” She answered.

The woman laughed, sardonic and harsh. Her shoulders were shaking more intensely now. “That’s what he said. That’s what I said. We all fail.”

Wren felt all fear drain out of her, only to be replaced by a buzzing under her skin. She knew she was rising to the bait. It happened every time she came. But she couldn’t help it. She hated her.

“Shut up,” She hissed.

“Or what?” The woman taunted. She lifted her head, and her long black hair parted across her face to reveal hollowed cheeks, and crazed yellowed eyes. She grinned, and Wren’s stomach turned. Her teeth were sharp, serrated, and dripping blood. They must have fed her right before she got there.

“You going to tell them to kill me? Finally pull the plug? Or maybe let them poke and prod at me like the animal I am? Are you? Huh?” She threw her head back and laughed. “You’re too weak.”

“Shut up!” Wren shouted, leaping to her feet. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“Weak,” The woman repeated, tauntingly. “Just like I used to be. Back when I loved you. Back before I was turned. Don’t you remember that? I bet you don’t. No memories of when we used to sit on the roof. No memories of when I read you stories. No memories of when I tucked you in at night.”

“SHUT UP!” Wren screamed.

“No memories of when I was your mother,” The woman grinned, bloody teeth displayed.

“You’re not my mother,” Wren choked out. She hated coming her. It was always like looking in a mirror. A twisted, fucked up mirror. The hate in her eyes reflected back at her from somebody she used to love.

“Then why do you keep coming back, huh?” The woman asked. “Because you want to see if I’ve changed? You want to keep me company? Please, we both know the real reason. The reason that you refuse to tell that pathetic brother of yours.”

She grabbed a chain and yanked. It didn’t budge, but Wren jumped back. The woman laughed.

“You want the pain, don’t you? Feels like you’re repenting for some sin you never committed. You like hurting yourself.”

“You don’t know me,” Wren said. That wasn’t true. This woman knew her to well.

“Uh huh,” The woman snorted. “I’m your mother. I know you.”

Wren didn’t respond, and the woman didn’t say anything else. She just smiled, much to happily in her cage. She was happy, or some fucked version of it.

They had been coming here every day. Every day since that day when they had been attacked. They didn’t know what at bitten her. It disappeared, leaving two scared children and a newly turned monster who had attacked her son. The peace keepers had shown up in time to stop her, but not in time to save her. Jasper and Wren had agreed that they weren’t going to abandon her. It was painful. It sucked. But they stayed.

She wasn’t going to leave her like everybody else.

           

           

             


End file.
